


A Gentleman in Black

by fengirl88



Category: Good Omens (TV), Harlots (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, unexpected encounters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:33:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29020524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: London, 1763.He’s there again, the man with the smoked spectacles.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	A Gentleman in Black

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kalypso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalypso/gifts).



> a small birthday fic for Kalypso, who suggested that these two should meet.

He’s there again, the man with the smoked spectacles. Third time in a fortnight. Leaning against the doorway of the empty house across the street. All in black, like a parson, but no parson ever wore that red wig. If it is a wig. Might be his own hair. Not wearing bands, either, and his suit’s too fancy for the clergy. Heavy black silk knee breeches, black silk stockings, lace at his throat and wrists, silver thread embroidery on the facings and cuffs and pockets of his frock-coat. 

“What’re you staring at?”

Bad for business, a man like that. Makes the culls think of sermons and graveyards, parson or no. Could be a cull himself, but Nancy doubts it. One of those likes to watch, perhaps. She’s no patience for that.

“I’ve heard about your house, Nancy Birch,” he says, uncoiling himself from the doorway. “I think it’s time we were acquainted.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my house!” Nancy snaps. “Who the devil are you, anyway?”

The man sketches a short, ironical bow. 

“Not quite the devil,” he says, “but close enough. My name is Crowley. At your service, Nancy Birch.”

 _Crowley_. It suits him; he looks like a bloody crow in that rig.

“What makes you think I need anything from you?” 

His smile makes her shiver. 

“Oh, everyone needs something. The men who come to your house need to be beaten. You need to put food on the table, keep a roof over your head. But what you truly desire – nobody knows that.”

“Mind your own fucking business,” Nancy says, her throat full of sand.

“Believe it or not, I mean you no harm,” says the man. “Will you take a glass of wine with me, Nancy Birch?”

He tosses her a purse that wasn’t in his hand a moment ago. It’s heavy with coin. God knows she needs the money, and her gullet's as dry as the remainder biscuit after a voyage. 

It’s eleven in the morning, but any hour's a good time for drinking in Russell Street.

“All right,” she says. “Come on in, Mister Crowley.”

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine Crowley's outfit as like [this](https://www.louvre.fr/oeuvre-notices/charles-joseph-crowle-1738-1811), but in black (clearly the painter got his name slightly wrong).


End file.
